The bedroom door is flung open with a burst of hallway light blasting my eyes.
“Momma, can you get up now?”
I squint at the clock. 6:09 a.m. On a Saturday.
My sleepy brain groans. My body feels like a bag of bricks. “Wait until the clock says seven-zero-zero,” I mumble.
“Okay!” And she slams the door.
What feels like thirty seconds pass when the door is flung open again. “Momma,” she calls in a loud-ish, raspy whisper, “It’s time to get up!”
Before I launch into a restrained adult-tantrum about the necessity of older people sleeping in on weekends, I open my eyes and see her standing there, with three lop-sided pigtails in her hair and dressed in her ballet outfit. I can’t help but smirk. In her own way she knows how to celebrate a Saturday.
It is now 8:27 and we’ve ploughed through a plate of pancakes, a page in a colouring book, two episodes of Paw Patrol, a mini-dance party, and a funny-face competition.
Suddenly it is eerily quiet. I peek into the living room.
The child is asleep on the couch…